Dystopian Prince
by cottonteeth
Summary: An omen leads him to her. Under his armor, she could see a web of time strings, thin like veins, rushing the seconds through his system. He was there, but he wasn't there at all, a paradox himself, a doomed dark knight prepared to fall with his kingdom. TDKR/AU.
1. Chaos Theory

_This is the way the world ends_

_This is the way the world ends_

_This is the way the world ends_

_Not with a bang but a whimper._

― T. S. Elliot, _**The Hollow Men**_

.

**0. P**rologue: Chaos Theory*

_the study of unpredictable and complex dynamic systems that are highly sensitive to small changes in external conditions._

* * *

.

"There is no Batman."

She could feel a cold shiver brushing her back, almost like a tender touch. The man in front of her, sitting elegantly behind the wooden desk, remained composed but she could sense his discomfort by the way he kept moving his fingers.

"Those dreams you've been having are created from fragments of a reality you believe are lost memories." She wanted to look up and face him directly, see if he was telling the truth by making eye contact and then wait for the first twitch. But she couldn't. After all, who was she, a woman damaged by memory disorder, to judge a psychologist.

"This figure... Batman," he had no reasons to lie, "is no less fictional than the story of Gotham falling into a state of dystopia." Did he?

Nevertheless, he had a doctoral degree hanging proudly on his wall while she could barely remember her own name.

"Would you like to say anything?" She could tell he was not particularly pleased with her lack of response. He tried once again and moved the blank sheet of paper and black pen to the edge of the desk, right in front of her. "You know we can't wait until your throat is healed."

With dried lips and a bitter taste in her tongue, she frowned and straightened her back against the chair. _Amnesia, memories, fiction, lies_, suddenly everything felt overwhelming and out-of-place. Other than a few blurred images and names, supposedly all created by the dark pits of her subconscious, she had nothing to rely on.

And yet, he wanted her to say something. She couldn't even _say_ anything, even if she wanted to, for that matter. The thick scar in her neck seemed to weigh as much as a dog's chain, trapping her voice from coming out. The corner of her lips involuntary raised. _How hilarious._

"Please," it sounded almost like a curious plea desperately wanting to know her inside joke, "I want to help you."

After a moment of uncomfortable silence, she finally raised her gaze to meet his. The doctor before her eyes remained restless as she studied his appearance. He was sixty years old, at least. Instead of wearing a piece of suit much like her past psychologists, he wore a simple green sweater. The photographs behind him revealed a big family, with many possible grandchildren and whatnot.

Overall, he seemed perfectly balanced. Way better than her, certainly. The odds were against any theory of him lying, leaving her no reason to doubt anything he said so far.

However, something in the back of her head kept yelling furiously, refusing to trust his welcoming aura. Maybe it was the fact that his fingers had yet to stop moving so much, and such act was starting to make her anxious. Going against the odds, she followed what was left of her conscience.

Blue tired eyes and a few family photos didn't make him a good man, just like the incapability of speaking didn't silence her thoughts nor it made her a complete fool.

Her hands reached for the black pen with much restriction due the heavy handcuffs around her wrists. _Just as a precaution_, they said. It truly made her curious whether she was capable of doing any harm, because at such moments, where she could hardly hold a pen, she felt as weakling as a newborn.

Much to his disappointment, she just started drawing curved lines in a very agonizing pace, never moving her gaze away from him. It felt pretty ironic how the patient was the one with a pen on hands while the doctor simply waited while feeling uneasy under her stare.

He cleared his throat and removed his glasses, possibly removing the 'kind man' mask along the way, for his eyes hardened at her childish behavior and his fingers stopped moving so impatiently.

"I cannot help you if you don't cooperate with me." She dropped the pen without much care. "There may be people out there looking for you, have you ever thought about that?"

She lowered her head and let him believe that such foolish emotional tricks were effective. She felt something nostalgic, almost like a _déjà vu_. The feeling of being scolded like a child. Pretending to believe in something she didn't want to.

Ah, yes. From a child being told how to act, to a whole civilization being influenced by a government and its lies. The feeling of being repressed felt way too familiar, like an old friend stopping by for a visit on an unexpected day.

She could act as stubbornly as she wanted to but the cycle would never stop. Another psychologist would come and repeat the same monologue, all over again.

_"I just want to help you―"_

_"―Your family and friends must be worried about you―"_

_"―Try to remember something―"_

_"―His name."_

It was truly strange. They would safely state how those figures and situations from her dreams were fictional, and yet they always showed a peculiar interest for details. Names.

Perhaps it came from the same nature of believing in fairy tales and old myths. The interest of wanting to read or research something that is not real, just for the sake of feeding the curious beast in your head. The want to live in a different universe felt way too shallow for her taste and she refused to believe that her mind had created such thing.

If those dreams were fictional, she would be dreaming of high lands and a majestic home, not a city drowned by ashes and despair.

With a light shake of her head, she clouded her eyes with exaggerated sorrow and looked back at the doctor. It was just another day without further answers. Another day without the truth.

But for now, she had to hush the voice in her conscience and believed in his words.

Those dreams were not real.

She was just a lost, sick woman.

There was no dystopian prince trying to redeem his fallen kingdom. There was no Batman.

.

* * *

**A/N: **Hello there! Welcome to my first TDKR story! This was a very slow, short - but necessary - introduction, but I hope you got interested enough or even just a tiny little bit. The actual story will take place after the events of The Dark Knight until it reaches The Dark Knight Rises and beyond. Yeah. I suppose you could call it AU, so don't expect me to follow the movie or else it would end up pretty boring, no? Also, I got no beta atm, so forgive me for any grammatical mistakes and such. Any feedback is much appreciated! I'm an easygoing person (just let me love you)! I hope I'll see you soon!

*Thank you my dearest Alice (votremonde) for the lovely banner/image thingy + the tips and inspiration, ily.


	2. Incipient

_It is amazing how complete is the delusion that beauty is goodness._

― Leo Tolstoy, _**The Kreutzer Sonata**_

.

**1. I**ncipient

_adj._

_beginning to exist or appear, in an early stage._

* * *

.

Bruce wasn't a superstitious person. Far from it, he wasn't raised under any particular set of beliefs. As a child, he would, in a fearless fashion, embrace whatever cause he judged as right. And yet, he never considered himself as a rational man.

He couldn't recall the exact date it had happened, but on a certain morning he received a rather unique letter. Alfred always separated the correspondence in three categories: 'invitations', 'bills' and 'random rubbish'. The letter itself wasn't fit to be categorized. It had no address or any information at all, it was just a blank white envelope. After a few seconds of internal conflict, Alfred placed it by the far left, before any other letter. He could have placed it on the far right instead, after the other letters, but the chances of Bruce noticing the envelope would drastically decrease.

Alfred had been right. As usual.

Bruce hadn't given a mere glance at the right side of the dinner table. Even the croissants placed near the 'bills' were ignored.

He would usually slide his fingers across the diverse invitations and then would resume to his morning routine. Most of it were of charity balls, and even though he hardly ever attended to those, he would always take a look at the neatly folded invitations filled with trinkets. So much money invested in a simple piece of paper, it felt like the perfect antithesis of the party's _main_ purpose. However, in that morning, the lone simple letter by the far left didn't pass unnoticed.

Without much care, he tore the envelope open and found something strange, to say the least.

It was a heavy thin paper in the shape of a playing card, the engraving of a historical jester located at the center and its name under it. _William Sommers._

Turning the card around, it had another engraving of a historical figure, way more polished than the jester. _King Henry VIII._

The only difference is that the left side of the king's face was harshly scratched with a black ink.

Two months later, a mob-owned bank was robbed by a C_lown_. Some time after that, Harvey Dent, Gotham's _White Knight_, was divided into two. The damaged side of his face, curiously, matched with the scratches on the king's face.

Back in that morning, Bruce clearly remembers being momentarily intrigued, but in the end, he had decided that the card was probably some innovative way of marketing some product he probably didn't need nor cared.

The envelope had gone straight to the trash bin, alongside with the letters under the 'random rubbish' category.

The memory only darkened his mood. He felt his knuckles unwittingly crack with a sharp sound that echoed around the living room. The penthouse seemed to get colder as the ticking's from the antique clock seemed to get louder.

He could, no way in hell, assume that the card from over one year ago was an _auspice_, an omen.

But if, and he made sure to repeat the word 'if' a few times, it had been some kind of warning, he had a bigger problem on his hands. The first suspect in mind was The Joker himself but then he quickly ruled him out. The _clown_ could have had a few tricks under his sleeves, but he never knew about Bruce.

He had no further suspicions, and the concern only aggravated.

Not only someone had managed to send him a symbolic way of _reading the future_, but this someone was out there and it knew about Batman's identity.

The sound of footsteps startled him, and not even the sight of the old British man soothed his anxiety. Alfred seemed to notice his uneasiness, but decided to remain silent about it, fearing that by pressuring the subject things would only get worse.

"I got good news, Master Wayne." He said, "The Manor is almost fully rebuilt. We will be able to go back in no time, perhaps even by next month."

Bruce nodded his head. The eagerness of going back to the familiar walls of his home wasn't enough to boost any excitement in him. He felt as lifeless as a painter locked in a room, filled with paint and blank canvas but no inspiration.

No wonder he had a sudden urge to chop his ear off.

Alfred gazed at the _young_ man. He looked tired and _old_. The grief was hugging his soul while pretending to comfort the lonely hours. It was something out of Alfred's reach to interfere, so he could only hope that time would heal his wounds.

Suddenly remembering something, the old butler reached inside his pocket.

"While checking the Manor's mailbox, I found this." A white envelope. "It must have arrived a few days ago. I didn't take a look on it, but it could be something of value to you." It felt bittersweet to say those words, knowing that the true 'letter of value' sent by Rachel, had been neglected and burned by the butler himself.

But Alfred knew that, for Bruce's sake, spending a few nights awake in guilt was worth it.

"Perhaps attending to a charity event wouldn't be a bad idea. Get yourself some headlines in a gossip magazine or something." Alfred smiled at Bruce's annoyed expression. _Better than nothing._

"If you don't mind, Alfred, I would like some tea." The request came out of nowhere and the surprise was shown in Alfred's face. Bruce hated tea.

_"__I thought only sick people drank tea." The six years old boy looked inconsolable at the teapot, as if it was a monster pretending to be porcelain among the teacups. The clock had just reached five o'clock. It was time for Alfred's Afternoon Tea._

_"Well, I'm not one to nurture a stereotype, but I'm British, Master Wayne."_

_"So British people are sick all the time?" Alfred laughed at the young boy and gave him a gentle pat on the head._

_"In some way or another, we all are." Not wanting to show his confusion at the old man's response, Bruce only nodded his head in fake understanding._

_"You know, I'd join you for some... tea." Bruce made a disgusted face for emphasis. "But I want some cookies in return." He tilted his head at the oven which currently housed the freshly baked chocolate recipe._

_"Having your company would be my pleasure, Master Wayne." Bruce's eyes shined with delight, he could almost feel the sweet taste in his tongue. "But you can't eat before dinner, your mother would be very upset."_

_The young boy pouted before resting his head on both hands. Emotional blackmail was far from being a weapon against the butler, but deep down, Bruce always managed to have a little advantage._

_"You could eat some light biscuits, instead."_

_"But they taste like nothing, it would be like eating thin air!" 'That's the point', Alfred mused quietly. "And what's the point anyway, it would go straight to my stomach, just like the chocolate cookies."_

_"Alright, Alright." Alfred sighed in defeat. "Just don't tell your mother."_

Alfred treasured such memories like a fine jewel. Sometimes they were the only way to ease his mind.

"Would you like some chocolate cookies, as well?"

"I'm not a child, Alfred. You seem to forget that quite a lot." Hardly offended by his words, Alfred fixed some chamomile tea _and_ a plate filled with cookies.

By the time he got back, Bruce was peacefully slumbering on the couch.

The plate was empty while the teacup remained untouched.

* * *

.

The Manor looked new, as if it had never been burned down in the first place. The indoors decoration was a bit modified, but the rest had a very familiar feel to it. Even the smell of fresh paint felt homely.

Bruce looked around his room and released a tired sigh. Above all the things, it felt _strange_ to be back. The cavern below had became his home for the past years. He wasn't used to his real _home_, anymore. It would take some time to embrace the calm average lifestyle.

While organizing his belongings, something fell off his jacket's pocket. It was the letter Alfred had given to him, on that day in the penthouse. It didn't have a proper address, just Bruce's name and the date of 16th November from twenty years ago. A frown took over his expression.

Soon he found that inside the envelope had a very familiar playing card, and his blood run cold, almost as if his veins had turned into strings of ice.

_No, not this again. Please, I barely got my peace of mind back, don't do this to me._

But Bruce knew that pleas to the unknown wouldn't help him. It never did.

Trying to remain calm, he decided to look over the card. It wasn't the same one with the jester and the king. The engravings were different.

The first figure was from a warrior. _Achilles._

An odd sign was already evident. A drawn circle around his mouth, covering half of his face. A few arrows were pointing at it.

Turning the card around, the next figure didn't have any additional drawings but it didn't really need to. _The Trojan Horse._

Bruce rubbed his eyes in an attempt to clear his head and think straight. The card could be of anything, _anyone_. Whoever was trying to alert him of something, was doing quite a poorly job. Even though he knew a few things about the Trojan War, he was certain it wasn't enough to read between the lines and interpret the card.

Placing it aside, he took the envelope and rushed downstairs.

"Alfred!"

After a few minutes wondering around, he found him dusting the chandelier from the main living room. "Alfred!"

"Bloody hell." The British man murmured while placing a hand on his chest. "Don't scare me like this again, it could cost you a new chandelier _and_ butler."

Ignoring his sarcastic remark, Bruce handed him the envelope. "Could you do some research about this date? Absolutely anything you find might be useful."

"Yes - of course, Master Wayne." Alfred looked at the envelope carefully.

"Also, bring me some books about the Trojan War. It might come in handy later." The last part was said in a hushed tone, but Alfred heard it anyway.

"Are you doing some school project I'm not aware of?"

"I'm serious, Alfred."

"I never said you weren't."

* * *

.

When the evening approached, Alfred was finally back from the library with loaded hands. They both settled on the Manor's office and started to look over the documents. Dinner was no longer remembered.

"It took a while, but I found a Japanese article published twenty years ago involving a murder that had happened on this date." Bruce looked over at the scanned old journal. The letters were mostly blurred, but it didn't matter much since he couldn't understand the Japanese language and much less its characters. It all looked like a big mess to him. Judging his confused expression, Alfred continued.

"An illegal immigrant family of three was brutally murdered on their own house located in a small village. The father was decapitated and his body was found trapped in a medieval device called The Street Sweeper's Daughter." He paused. "The mother was stabbed with an unknown object, possibly a sword or a very sharp knife."

The room fell in silence. Alfred took off his glasses and sighed while Bruce kept his head down in deep thought.

"What about the third member?" He asked quietly.

"The corpse of the ten years old daughter was never found. The police's best bet was that she ran away and probably got lost or was found by someone, hopefully."

With a nod, Bruce kept looking around the old articles.

"You said they were immigrants. From where, exactly?"

"It was stated as unknown. However," Alfred handed him some other papers, "apparently the father had affiliations on Tibet."

Bruce took a sharp breath. Far too many unpleasing memories came to mind. The time he spent locked in a prison. Ra's al Ghul. The League of Shadows. _No, one thing has nothing to do with another._

Looking back at the article, he realized that certain characters had been highlighted.

_エンジェル・オブ・デス_

"What is this?"

"Oh - since they never found any traces of the murderer, he was referred as 'Angel of Death'. Some people believed that his purpose was to purify the victims." Alfred shook his head in disbelief.

"I―" Bruce got up from the chair and moved towards the door. "I have to do this, Alfred."

"Hold on!" Alfred followed him in confusion and mild annoyance at the lack of proper answers so far. "What are you talking about, Master Wayne?"

"I'm going to Japan."

.

* * *

**A/N: **JFC! I didn't mean for so many things to happen in only one chapter, I'M SO SORRY! In case anyone is confused, this is taking place AFTER The Dark Knight. You might have noticed the fact that Bruce's walking cane is missing. Well, I just refuse to believe that he spent eight years walking around with a cane, _please_. So, yeah! Yay to Greek myths and historical references! If you are still confused by something, please, do not be afraid to ask me! I would love to help you out in this whole mess. Thank you so much for the reviews and alerts! You guys are lovely!


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